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The Gleaner 



established 1901 

Delaware Valley College of Science and Agriculture 

Doylestown, Pennsylvania 18901 



Spring 1987 




Editor & Chief 

Melissa Brangan 

Editor 

Grace Wells 

Staff 

Barbara Kranzel 
Kay Lobaugh 
Fay Lobaugh 
Betsy Hague 

Cover Photo 

Melissa Brangan 



Literary Work 

Beth Bevins 
Art Hingst 
Drs. Adelle and 
Richard Ziemer 
Melanie O'Neill 
Barbara Kranzel 
Colleen Callahan 
Bill Benner 
Melissa Brangan 



Photographs 

Kris Iandola 
Maggie Ellis 
Melissa Brangan 
John Litzke 

Artwork 

C. Dalton 
Laura Etzweiler 

D. Mount 
Melissa Brangan 



The Gleaner is a student publication. Those opinions expressed within are not necessarily those of 
The Gleaner editors. Neither the college nor the editors will assume responsibility for plagarism 
unknowingly occurring within. 




Artwork by K. Dalton 



What is Beauty? 

Beauty is the things that touch deep within the heart. 

Like a rainbow after a storm, 

The velvety petals of a single rose, 

The scream of a newborn baby, 

Watching the sunset with a special friend, 

Looking into the sky on a moonlit night and seeing a falling star, 

Or hearing a love song when you're lonely. 

But most of all beauty is when someone likes you just for you. 

Beth Bevins 



Me, Myself and I 

Two friends I have, as they have too, 
Do never call each other "you, " 
Save times of self-inflicted pain, 
And moments when we're feeling vain. 

We're with each other every day, 
So rarely have we much to say, 
Yet news to me is news to three, 
Vice Versa too, inherently. 

Our interests are identical; 
Our dislikes are the same as well; 
Our looks and manners quite the same; 
No difference is there in our names. 

We often walk through fields at night; 
Dark forests also with delight, 
And pilot solo through the sky, 
To watch below as clouds go by. 

We've traveled places far and wide, 
And twixt us not a secret hides. 
No closer friends are there on Earth, 
Than we, who have been friends since birth. 

Throughout our life we've ever known, 
That never would we be alone, 
Whilst in such friends we do believe, 
Or so it is as we perceive. 

These friends I have, likewise have you; 
Like mine, yours are unique to you. 
They are forever by your side, 
Or deep within where they reside. 

Ever happy, never content, 

Whereto we've coursed, we're glad we went. 

As one we live; so shall we die, 

As best friends: me, myself and I. 

Art Hingst 




Photo by Kris Iandola 





Photo by Kris Iandola 



Photo by Maggie Ellis 





Photo by Melissa Brangan 



A Gift of Life 

After eight years of childless marriage and of two professional careers, folks quit 
asking, 'Are you planning to have children?" Even though we both were over 
thirty-five years old, we had not ruled out having children; we just put it off as it 
was easy to do so. But when Adelle received a professional leave to pursue a 
doctorate, our own little miracle of pregnancy began. Because it was Thanksgiving 
before the doctor confirmed it, we decided not to say anything until Christmas. "Do 
not open 'til Christmas" was a difficult maxim to keep, but our news made a 
terrific present for Adelle's nearby parents. Having no appropriate package or 
wrapping or, moreover, contents to show for ourselves except glee, we gift-wrapped 
a small toy teddy bear holding a birth announcement. 

After the gift was opened and the initial shock disappeared from Pop's face, he 
began seriously to prepare for this new "granddaughter. " We both wanted a girl 
and were sure we would not be disappointed. Pop and Mom took a spring trip to 
Florida, where they bought a flattering maternity dress — the only one Adelle has 
ever owned. 

Easter fell in April that year and at a delicious turkey dinner the subject of Adelle's 
superb cooking was eclipsed with talk of the arrival of our daughter on July 12th. 
(Adelle's calculations in statistics class that semester proved more accurate than the 
doctor's.) When the subject of "her" name came up, Pop tossed out his own name, 
(Forrest Peters Yeakelj, as this "grandson" could be his namesake too. 

"You've got to think how much money that name's goin' to bring him," he cajoled. 

"Oh Daddy, " replied Adelle, "we're expecting a girl and Richard has settled on 
reversing my name to spell Elleda and adding Mother's name Claire. " 



No matter what the name, Pop was emotionally in high gear and curtailed some of 
his appointments for the summer, because "We're goin' to enjoy this grandchild we 
thought we'd never have," he said. Although his high blood pressure and weight 
imposed a burden on him, he still planned one last fishing trip before our "blessed 
event." But after fishing was over, he returned home and fatally collapsed. At his 
viewing on Father's Day Adelle wore that one maternity dress. Stunned by unex- 
pected sorrow, we patched up our emotions for July 12th and finished our summer 
school courses. The ribbon on our real present was now somewhat unraveled. 

Making one last visit to the obstetrician July 11th, we learned that we had to wait 
a day longer. We addressed birth announcements until evening, and then made our 
midnight ride to the hospital. At 8:26 the next morning Elleda Claire Ziemer was 
born. 

"You have your princess, " said the obstetrician. 

Although one month late for Pop, Elleda was providentially on time for Mom, many 
of whose following days and evenings were spent at our place enjoying her long- 
awaited Christmas present. If we could have ordered Elleda with all possible op- 
tions, we could not have been more pleased. She's one gift never to be exchanged 
for cash, credit or replacement. One of her most frequently repeated requests was, 
"Mommy, tonight do I get to sleep at my Grammy's place?" That active love rela- 
tionship has proved to be our gift of life and brings joy to her widowed grandmother 
year after year. 

Drs. Adelle and Richard Ziemer 



Little girl come out of your shell 

Don't be afraid of the world around you 

Hold your head up high and reach for the stars 

Don't ever let your dreams and ambitions die 

Make your own decisions, choose your own friends 

For only you know what you want 

Believe in yourself no matter what anyone tells you 

Because to make it in this world you have to be strong 

No matter how bad things look. 

Beth Bevins 



Photo by Kris Iandola 








Photo by John Litzke 



Why? 



Tears are cried because of 
happiness 
sadness 

confusion 

disappointment 
and relief. 

My tears are cried for all these reasons 
As you can see my feelings are a real mess 
My only problem now is finding out why. 
Maybe I'm in love. 

Beth Bevins 




Photo by Maggie Ellis 



Senility 



What does he think of in the early dawn, 

as he pads across the lawn? 
He cannot remember yesterday, 

nor this morning in that way. 
Does he think of days past 

as he walks across the grass? 
When he was young 

and there were still songs to be sung? 
Does he enjoy life, 

or is it just a daily strife, 
Is it only waking and eating 

just to keep being? 
Does he know death is near? 

Does he fear? 

Melanie O'Neill 



A Love Story 



Charlie and Elizabeth had been together for four years. They lived in an old 
farmhouse that was left to Elizabeth after her parents died. 

Elizabeth worked in town about ten miles away and Charlie stayed at home and 
looked over the farm. They had a quiet and comfortable relationship and respected 
each others differences. 

One warm night in August while Elizabeth was making dinner she mentioned that 
she had met a very nice graphic artist that her company had hired to do some print 
work for them. Charlie responded with a yawn and continued eating his dinner. 

A week later over dinner Elizabeth told Charlie that she had invited Mark, the nice 
graphic artist, over to eat dinner with them since he was new to the area and didn't 
know many people. Charlie heard what Elizabeth had said but just continued 
eating. In his heart he felt a pang of jealousy. 

On the day Mark came to dinner Charlie pretended he didn't feel well and went 
upstairs to lay down, he really didn't like company. 

Upstairs Charlie could smell the wonderful odor of Elizabeth's chicken but he lost 
his appetite when he heard the laughing downstairs. 



Even as Elizabeth snuggled against him in her sleep that night Charlie still felt very 
uneasy. 

Over the next few months Mark came over to the house more frequently. Charlie 
was polite, but did not show any form of friendship towards him. Elizabeth didn't 
seem to notice Charlie's behavior, she was obviously delighted with Mark's visits. 

Then the inevitable happened; Charlie came home late one evening from the fields 
and looked up to the house. There in the window were Elizabeth and Mark locked 
in each other's arms. Charlie stood for a few moments and then just started 
walking out toward the road, his heart breaking. 

A sharp knocking came at Elizabeth's door. She gathered it was a truck driver 
since she saw the 18-wheeler parked just outside her driveway. 

"Uh, Miss, " he began, "I'm afraid something's happened ..." Guessing what had 
happened she gasped and dashed out to the road. 

There he was just a few feet away from the driveway. She bent over Charlie's 
wracked body her tears dripping on his face. 

Elizabeth felt a hand on her shoulder, it was Mark. She turned to him and said, "I 
can't believe he's gone. I loved him so much. I've had him since he was a kitten." 

Betsy Hague 



Self-image 

You say you like me, 

trust me, 

care about me 

and understand me 
And I ask you, "How and Why?" 
How can anyone like me when I hate myself. 
Why all of a sudden does somebody care? 

Beth Bevins 




Artwork by D. Mount 





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Photo by Kris landola 



Destiny 



Taking cover. Hiding in the brush. 
The endless shots piercing my ears 
as the blood splatters around me. 
Soldiers beside me, intent 
on the living targets, shoot, 
just as I too shoot. Shoot to kill! 
I can feel the thunder in the ground. 
I smell the putrid stench of blood 
that makes everything reek of death. 
I think of the end! Fear 
takes a grasp at my soul. Hate 
pours from within me. Lasting hate! 

Then I see her, her fragile body 

in the midst of this bloody war, 

so alone and set apart 

from all other things. The look 

on her face is of terror. Terror 

so vividly portrayed that I know 

instantly nothing else matters to me 

but this child. I'm running. I hear 

the shouts behind me. "No, no, you fool, 

you'll be killed!" I block them out. 

I see her small tear-streaked face, 

and those eyes of soft brown meet mine. 

They look deep into me and plead to me. 

I'm almost there. She's just beyond my reach. 

Only ten more feet to go. 

No! I lose her glance. My mind goes numb. 

A flash of pain. I look up 

but all to be seen is the earth exploding 

and her body with it. Within the smoke 

and the flying shards of bloody and fiery red, 

I can still see her eyes. "No! 

No!, " I scream, but it's too late. 

Too late for her and for me. 

No! Why does it have to end this way? 

I open my eyes and see the white 
room about me. I hear the consoling voice, 
"It's okay. I'm here to help you; 
Everything is going to be alright now ..." 
But, in my mind, those eyes will always be 
just beyond my reach. 
Donna E. Albert 




Artwork by Melissa Brangan 



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Above the water, on the rocks, 

this is where my spirit can be free. 

For when I'm there I am a thing of the wild, 

unbound from any law — untouched by man's ideals. 

But soon I must return to the chains which bind my 

existence and threaten to crush my spirit; and so I 

wait 'til I can again be free. 

Colleen Callahan 






Photo by Melissa Brangan 



Once (it seems so long ago} I knew what I wanted. 
Maybe 1 was too secure, but 1 thought I had it all. 
How do things fall apart so easily? 

We shared so many things, both good and bad. 

You made the good times better and the rough times easier. 

You were always there to help me. 

But I ended up hurting you. 

And although "I never meant to, I'm sorry" doesn't help; 

I have to say it. I am sorry. 

I only can hope that you will do two things. 
That you will remember what we had together, and 
that you will remember that I will always love you. 
Goodbye. 

Colleen Callahan 



Photo by John Litzke 




A Note on War 

Battles can be lost or won 
Without that much effect, 
Because war will go on and on 
Forever, I expect. 

Always when the battle's won 
There's talk and praise of jobs well done, 
And always when the battle's lost 
They argue monetary costs. 

Too often tend we to forget 
The tragic end the soldier met, 
And children, who so very young, 
Died when their lives had just begun. 

"In God we trust, " we'd say with pride, 
We must be right, "He's on our side," 
But can we truly be so blind 
To think that God had THIS in mind? 

The righteousness of war is gone; 
The source we must disect. 
Till then war will go on and on 
Forever, I expect. 

Art Hingst 



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Photo by Maggie Ellis 



Tennessee 






Damp, woody scents hang in the wild land. 

Above, and far, far above still, the leafy layers 

Open out upon themselves, filigreed clouds of green, 

Shot through by rough, massive trunks, hemlock and giant oak. 

Slick dewed laurel leaves gleam under 

A chance column of sunlight, while 

Water plays at a magic dance, tumbling, tumbling, 

And a bird flutes a clear phrase. 

The land exhales an ancient odor, at once clear and clean, 

The smell of wood, water and green gloom. 

Scarlet bee balm and golden daisies of tickseed sunflower 

Mingle, points of flame on a textured brown-and- green hillside. 

Sparkling, they sweep from high above, 

Where the blue mountaintop stands hazy through far leaves 

Against a bluer sky. Down in a jumbled, wild tangle, 

They follow the green gully and fall into the shadows below. 

The flowers hide the tiny brook and its measured, steady dripping; 

Beneath, the water slides along the stone and plinks 

Drop by drop into a tiny pool. 

Close up, ruby rays of tubular balm and the yellow disks of 

Sunflowers are framed against the cool ferns; 



A whirring rush of small sound, and a hummingbird dips into the scarlet, 

Red throat to red flower. 

Precise, controlled, flickering moth-like from sun to shadow, 

He hangs for a moment, perfect in a patch of golden light; 

Then wheels, and is gone. 

Thunder rambles along the ridge; dark clouds pile against the darker hills. 

The gloom deepens. Rapidly then, leaping closer, swiftly 

Tearing across the sky, tatters of shredded clouds are 

Pressed on by the cold hand of suddenly relentless gusts. 

Thick mist descends, quickly, and silver rain patters, pauses, then drums. 

The woods are a green swirling rush of water, earth and sky. 

Dreamlike, wraiths of cloud move through the tree lanes, 

Stately shapes against majestic pillars. 

A soft pattering, lingering mist, and the rain ends. 
Soon pale shafts of sun catch hanging, twinkling drops, 
And steam rises through the tangled rhododendrons. 
Lifting its bold black and scarlet head, a woodpecker 
Rattles a clear jungle call, leaps from the hemlock and 
Arrows swiftly up the stream. 

Below, the water flows sparkling in the rinsed light. 
Running loudly, channeled along the far bank, it undercuts 
A gnarled, mossy, waist-thick root, then veers to center, 
Seeks a slice in the rounded rock ledge, and plunges through. 

Bill Benner 



Doesn't It Figure 

/ had an idea last December 
That'd help forgetful folks remember, 
And had another thought in May 
That'd make us mind the words we say. 

No matter now, I've lost these thoughts, 
And this is why I thought for naught; 
For when I tried to write them then, 
Seems I'd misplaced my #/*@*?/5* pen. 

Art Hingst 




Photo by Melissa Brangan 



Backyard Reflections 

This is good. It is late spring as I sit on the dew-laden grass watching Pip and Siri 
play. Pip, my half-grown kitten, is the hunter, stalking, furtive, he jumps in the air 
after a fly. Siri, my perfect Golden Retriever, like a clown filled with giddiness, rubs 
her back on a low shrub and growls with delight. 

When a child, my backyard was my kingdom, my ranch, my ocean. I left it behind 
to search for reality and reason. But today its smallness and familiarity is a 
comfort. I am satiated from yesterday's hard work, physically sore and emotionally 
drained. My goals go far beyond this yard — to challenges of bigger yards with 
bigger trees to climb. Yet today I find happiness here in simplicity. Do I have to 
ever leave? Could I accept this happiness and not always have a craving for more? 

Siri begs to have her ball thrown and her ears scratched; she is happy just with my 
company. Pip, always watching, is content to hide in the jungle, our lawn. Cherry 
blossoms float to the ground, landing in the grass amidst violets and dandelions. 



Nearby, a cardinal sings and further off another one replies. In a neighboring yard 
a scolded child cries. Around the yard is a fence. A good fence that makes good 
neighbors. It keeps Siri in when she doesn't feel like jumping it and Pip because he 
doesn't know the world outside it. 

The morning passes, the sun shows off the color of the red maple, which once 
served as my ship and horse. The breeze carries the fragrance of lilac and hyacinth. 
Pip chases Siri's tail. I move to where the sun has called back the dew. Next to me 
I realize is a grave. It is not forgotten, just put away in a corner of the yard. A spot 
of discontent, where the soil is unsettled and nothing yet grows. Woffie lies beneath 
in a hole where I placed his limp body. The hole was filled and covered over, but in 
my heart there is still a gaping wound. 

In the yard, Pip is bored and restless, having explored the entire yard. He climbs 
the fence. Uncertain of the other side, he treads precariously along the top. I call to 
him to come back to this side, but he is unsure. 

Melanie O'Neill 




Artwork by D. Mount 




Artwork by L. Etzweiler 



#¥■£ 



The Gift 



On a dark, windy night in late October a form slowly moved up the incline towards 
the cliffs. The form was Karen Fillmore, a senior at Claymont High School. 

Karen was the sort of girl who not too many people knew. She seemed to blend into 
her surroundings with ease. She liked it that way and avoided anyway of attracting 
attention to herself. 

The leaves crunched loudly under each step. Normally this would have annoyed her 
but she knew there was no one in the vicinity to hear her. 

She approached the edge of the cliff and stared out into the inky darkness. The 
wind began to blow harder as she stepped to the very edge of the cliff. 

Karen wanted to kill herself. Her father died the year before and her best friend 
had moved to Europe six months ago. She decided life was not worth the trouble. 

Truth was, she had a lot to live for. Karen was an extremely talented artist but was 
so shy she wouldn't submit her best work for fear of attracting too much attention 
to herself. Not surprisingly, her art teacher did little to encourage her. 

The wind swirled around her as she lifted her head to the stars for one last look as 
tears streamed down her face. 

The scene shifts . . . at that point time as we know it stopped and in another 
dimension a voice was heard. 

"This one's really a shame, she has so many thoughts to give yet. It's not her time. 
May I give her the gift. " 

Another voice was heard, "Yes, give her the gift. It seems this one certainly needs 
it." 

Karen was about to jump when she opened her eyes, looked down and had a 
sudden change of heart. No she couldn't do it. Another failure she thought to 
herself. 

Karen walked into her home about 10:00 PM that night. "Make sure you lock the 
door!, " her mother called down to her. She had no idea the turmoil her daughter 
had been in the last few months. 



Karen woke the next morning with the dreadful realization that today was Monday 
and she had to go to school. More than anything Karen hated school. 

She stayed in bed as long as possible praying that she would have a sudden attack 
of legionaires disease. No such luck, she washed and dressed quickly. 

Her first class was English with Mrs. Burton. She slipped quietly into her seat and 
buried her face into her English book. Mrs. Burton called the class to order and 
told them to be quiet and read chapter 37. 

At the back of the room sat Vinnie Martino, a 6'-2" , 230 lb. football player, who 
all the cheerleaders adored. Karen didn't adore him at all — in fact she thought he 
was an obnoxious beast. 

Today Vinnie decided he didn't feel like being quiet so instead he began talking to 
his friends, getting louder and louder so that none of the class could concentrate. 

"Mr. Martino!, " Mrs. Burton bellowed, "would you please be quiet!" Vinnie ignored 
this and just kept on talking. Somewhere from the class a voice was heard, "YOU 
GOD-DAMNED, OVERGROWN, FEEBLE-MINDED IDIOT - WHY CAN'T 
YOU BE QUIET!" 

The whole class looked up. Karen looked up and saw that everyone was staring at 
her. She realized that SHE had said it. Her thoughts raced trying to figure out what 
could have possessed her to say something like that. 

Mrs. Burton was the first to regain her composure. "Karen!, " she asked, "Is there 
something wrong?" Karen just sat there. "Karen! — we are waiting for your 
answer, " Mrs. Burton said more sternly. 

"WELL WAIT YOU OLD BAG!" Karen again realized that she had been the one 
who spoke and quickly grabbed her books and ran out of the room. 

Karen sat down in the library and tried to think — "what in God's name is happen- 
ing to me — I must be going insane. The things I said were my thoughts towards 
Vinnie and Mrs. Burton but I didn't want to say them." 

Karen looked at her watch and saw it was time for her next class. She began to 
walk down the hall towards her chemistry class. Coming towards her was Mr. 
Leary, the school's political science teacher. Mr. Leary was a nice enough teacher 
but no one took him seriously mostly because he never combed his hair and his 
clothes never matched. 



She saw him and tried to turn away but it was too late. "YOU KNOW MR. 
LEARY, " she began wishing she could stop herself, "IF YOU WOULD TAKE THE 
TIME TO WASH AND COMB YOUR HAIR IN THE MORNING AND LET 
SOMEONE WHO'S NOT COLOR BLIND PICK OUT YOUR CLOTHES YOU 
MIGHT LOOK HALFWA Y HUMAN AND GET SOME RESPECT AROUND 
HERE. " 

Mr. Leary stared at her for a moment and Karen dashed away, mortified at herself. 

She made it through her next few classes without any sudden outbursts. But as she 
was going to lunch she literally bumped head on into Clairissa Whitney. 

Clairissa was THE most popular girl in school and Karen just loathed her. It 
wasn't just the fact that she looked like a barbie doll just that she acted like one. 

"Oops — Hi!" Clairissa said in her usual cheery manner. On this particular day 
she was wearing a red leather mini-skirt with a black ripped tee-shirt, black fishnet 
stockings and red leather boots. 

Karen took one look at her and cringed. "CLAIRISSA, I HONESTLY DON'T 
THINK YOU COULD LOOK MORE TACKY IF YOU TRIED. " Karen began, 
unable to stop herself "IT'S REALLY A SHAME AN INTELLIGENT GIRL LIKE 
YOURSELF WOULD ACT LIKE SUCH AN AIR HEAD AND DRESS LIKE 
YOU WORK THE STREETS!" 

Clairissa gasped, Karen gasped and ran into the lunch room. "Please God," she 
prayed, "don't let this happen to me anymore!" 

But it did, all day. By the end of the school day she had told Mr. McKay that he 
was a real leach and should keep his hands off the female students and she told 
Tom Sterling that everyone in school knew he was seeing another girl behind his 
steady girlfriend's back and that she wished all men like him were dead. She also 
told Mrs. Ballam that she really enjoyed her class lectures and she told Chris 
Lorenz that she loved his essay and was glad he won the state competition. And so 
it went. For three-and-a-half years she had said nothing to these people and in just 
one day she had changed all of their attitudes towards her and many of their 
attitudes about themselves. 

The school bell rang at 3:30. "At last," Karen thought. She lingered a little in 
finishing an assignment so she wouldn't have to see anyone when she went to her 
locker. 



She got to her locker and got her coat without seeing anyone. She turned the corner 
to go downstairs and found herself face to face with Rich Conlin. 

To Karen, Rich was easily the cutest boy in school and his quiet manner made him 
a favorite with most of the girls. "O Lord, not again, " she thought, but it was too 
late, she began to speak, "YOU KNOW I'VE ALWAYS THOUGHT YOU HAVE 
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BLUE EYES. " "I do?, " he asked looking slightly shocked. 
Then much to Karen's astonishment he began talking to her. He had noticed 
Karen's work in art class (it wasn't her best but it was still pretty good}. They talked 
for awhile and he asked her to go to a school play that Friday. She accepted the 
offer without any hesitation. 

That afternoon Karen came home and told her mother she was tired and was going 
to take a nap. She didn't wake up till 10:30 that night. 

She went downstairs to get something to eat. "Hi honey, " her mother said as Karen 
entered the kitchen, "you must have really been tired. I left some chicken out for 
you. How do you like this skirt I bought today?" 

Karen stopped chewing on a piece of chicken and looked up. "It's hideous, " she 
thought. Karen dropped her chicken. She realized that whatever had possessed her 
today was gone, her thoughts were private again. 

Karen's mother looked at her puzzled. "Well, what do you think?" Karen was silent 
for a moment and then smiled, "Actually Mom, " she said, "it looks hideous. It 
would look much better on you if it was blue. " Karen's mother looked at the skirt 
and told her she was absolutely right, it was the wrong color for her and she would 
see if she could get it in blue. 

The gift never returned to Karen, it was with her for only one day, but she never 
forgot the lesson it taught her. 

Betsy Hague 




^ m 




Photo by Melissa Brangan 



Editors Note 



Being part of The Gleaner has been an enriching and inspirational experience 
for me this year. I am grateful to all the contributors for their hard work and 
effort in preparing their entries for the annual this year. Also the staff of 
Delaware Valley College should be commended for their input, not only in 
submission but in concern and assistance. I personally would like to thank the 
staff of The Gleaner and Barb Kranzel for all of the late night meetings and the 
mailing of hundreds of flyers. So now I'd like to pass the gift of The Gleaner 
on to you. Take a moment and read through it, appreciate the hard work so 
many people put into it. With that I, along with the staff of The Gleaner, 
present you the Spring 1987 edition. Enjoy! 

Sincerely, 



Melissa Brangan 
Editor and Chief 
Gleaner 1987 



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